Wash Up
by Desolate Heaven
Summary: At the height of the 1950's, paranoia is taking its toll on America. The effects of this manifest in a different way than most would think, however. My take on McCarthyist!America, hinted RussiaxAmerica, One-shot.


My friend and I exchanged a list of things we wanted each other to write/draw. This was on my list. It's not every long, but it actually ended up being longer than I thought it would.

* * *

Stifling sobs of frustration, America washed the soap from his hands—paying special attention to the space between his fingers and under his nails. Then he dried them, his breath ragged and cheeks flushed with effort he hadn't noticed himself putting forth. He was hungry, but he wasn't sure if it was safe to leave to leave the restroom yet. He wasn't quite sure if he would get cornered or not and he couldn't leave until he was. Because that _bastard_ had been doing it on purpose, waiting for him all over the place and touching him when he _just_-- Revulsion welled up in his gut, taking shape in a haze of fear that pounded in his temples.

His hand froze where it was, in the process of unlocking the door so he could scan the hallway outside for any threats. He shuddered, feeling that warm, ticklish flutter from before spread up his arm from his palm. He was sick.

_He must've made me sick. That's what it is._

A heavy pause. Several wild, flustered blinks passed before he took his hand away from the door and went back to the sink. The water was still searing when he switched it on again and, like before, he covered his hands in far more soap than he'd ever need.

Taking a deep breath, he scrubbed with his nails, further irritating already raw skin. He scrubbed until the hot water ran pink with blood from forming scratches. It didn't matter.

Steam from the sink fogged his glasses, hiding the building distress in his sky blue eyes. He left the water running as he dried his hands with unnecessary vehemence. By the time he'd found the presence of mind to realize that he'd left the water running and his stomach was still airy with nausea—because that's all it could be, _nauseanausea__**sick**_,nothing else— he had lost all his nerve. Until he got up the courage again, the door was as contaminated as the commie that had touched his damn hand.

America removed his glasses, setting them on the damp countertop.

"--Such an asshole." He groaned, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. He tried not to think of the kisses permeating his thoughts with each excited little flicker deep in his stomach. Or how antsy he was when he stared down the table and they were sitting right across from each other. Those feelings didn't compute right, those memories weren't real. He would _never __**let**_that…

He glanced wearily over at the sinks, more importantly at the liquid soap dispensers. He flicked his tongue over one of the little scratches left on his hand, before running his fingers through his hair. Vaguely, just vaguely, he wondered if a nation could be killed, poisoned with soap. Or at least made ill. He licked his lips and tasted those old kisses. An overwhelming urge to wash them out of his mouth forever overrode his ability to think rationally.

Licking his lips again, he inched back towards the sinks. He didn't look at himself in the large mirror, afraid of what wild thing might be staring back at him. Blue eyes continued their contemplation, only once swiveling to the locked door.

The taste on his tongue was nothing but _Russia_Communism.

Evil_Oh, it had been years._

America missed them, and that wouldn't do.

Choking back hesitation, he shut the running water off with just a few quick turns of a knob. He leaned down, bringing his lips to the nozzle on the dispenser.

Inhale.

Okay.

"_AMERICA!!_"

"_AAAH!_" He seized the soap dispenser by both sides and ripped it off the wall, hurling it at the unsuspecting door before his mind could register what exactly had startled him. The entire thing shattered, bits of plastic turning shrapnel and soap oozing to the floor.

America froze. Someone swore loudly on the other side of the door, but seemed to disregard whatever may have assaulted them, had they been able to enter.

"Bloody—Are you in there? You've been gone forty-five minutes!!"

That was familiar. Not an enemy voice. America blinked slowly—felt that he was waking from some sort of dream.

"Sorry, England." He called slowly. England didn't miss a beat.

"Unless you're sick, you better get your ass back to the meeting—we have been _waiting._"

America continued his blinking.

"Keep going without me. Not like I'll miss much." He felt England pause on the other side of the door. Then it rattled on its hinges. His former caregiver gave up after several tries.

"You're sick then?"

"To you, yea. To everyone else, they aren't worth my time." America laughed, lowering himself to the floor. With the door locked and sturdy, it felt like he'd found the perfect hiding place for a while. He just needed to think. He needed to wash his hands. Had he done that?

"Alright then. Don't… Don't stay in there all day."

"Just need to wash up, Artie. I'll see you tomorrow."

No one answered.


End file.
